


And In The End, We...

by Helianthus21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helianthus21/pseuds/Helianthus21
Summary: „There’s nothing that could go wrong now,” he whispers into the comfortable silence. He can hear the question mark in the wavering of his own voice.Hebelievesit. It’s just such a foreign concept, optimism.





	And In The End, We...

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at an indeterminable time in canon where I can decide what's happening and who's still alive:)

It takes eight months for him to wrap his head around the idea. Eight months of rest and run-off-the-mill hunts in roughly equal shares. Three months of that quiet, shy waltz between Cas and him growing exponentially more intense. Two months of living this strange new mix of highschool romance and long-time marriage. Another two of yelling and silent treatments and anger and emptiness. And one month of what Dean is still hesitant to call perfection. 

Because there’s no such thing. 

Because what they have now is as close to it as it gets.

And now – on a random Thursday in August that has them stargazing from the hood of the impala because that’s a thing they do now – he has finally reached that point where he believes they’ve made it.

No Apocalypse is looming in the distance. No forces trying to break them apart, no darkness taking over their lives. It’s in this moment – Cas’ thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into the back of his hand – that the thing he never bothered to commit to is solidifying inside him. 

For probably the second time in his life, he has faith.

It’s still fragile for sure, but it’s a start.

„There’s nothing that could go wrong now,” he whispers into the comfortable silence. He can hear the question mark in the wavering of his own voice. 

He _believes_ it. It’s just such a foreign concept, optimism.

__

He clears his throat. “When I die, you’ll just join me in my Heaven, right? You’re an angel, it’s just like coming back home.” The only serious threat anymore is death, and death hasn’t been known to split them up for that long anyhow. “Or – or if I don’t make it to Heaven, I –”

“You _will_.” The force in Castiel’s voice is testament to how often they’ve already had this debate. 

Dean gulps. Cas seems so sure that there’s a golden ticket to the Heavenly Gates with Dean’s name on it, and who is Dean to shake that faith? 

So, “Sure,” he says. “But just, if something goes wrong –,” and he talks right over Cas’ reproving look – “If I somehow end up in Hell again, that’s no problem, right? Just means you’ll get the leading role in Pull Me Outta Hell: The Sequel.” Throwing his hands up, he adds: “Or we’ll open up a charming B&B in Purgatory! There’s nothing that could go wrong, is what I’m saying!” 

Cas doesn’t answer. Just looks stoically at Dean. 

With an unsettling feeling spreading in his stomach, Dean is reminded of the dirt and the sweat and the blood. Fingers slipping through his own, and Cas yelling at him to _go_ and _save yourself_! He remembers what it meant for Cas, to be stranded in Purgatory. Remembers the secret vow Dean took with himself, to never let Cas go anywhere near that place again, that prison of Cas’ own making. 

He draws closer to Cas, runs a hand up his arm in comfort. “Hey, it doesn’t matter where, okay? What matters is –,” 

_That we’re together_.

After all this time he still can’t say it out loud. It’s too mushy, even if that’s exactly how Dean feels. Years of trying to fit into his father’s shoes made them cling to his feet almost like a second skin. All those years can’t be erased that easily. Though he tries.

_Cas knows_, he tells himself, again and again. _Cas gotta know_. 

So he doesn’t say it. 

“What matters is, there’s nothing to fight anymore, right? Or at least, nothing to be scared of.”

Suddenly Cas disentangles himself from Dean, straightens his spine until it’s the soldier sitting next to him, it’s all _Castiel_ and no more of the Cas with the big, lost eyes, the one he needs to shield from all the bad in the world. This Castiel doesn’t need his protection. (Though that doesn’t lessen Dean’s ingrained urge to lock him up in the safety of his room, not by much.)

“There’s nothing for you to be scared of, Dean,” he says, and it comes out rough and deep and honest. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

It would’ve been helpful for Cas to know that this kinda talk both turns him on – which he could’ve guessed considering the night that followed – and scares him, somewhere deep in his bones, where the urge to keep his loved ones close until they burst with his neediness couldn’t be scraped from his being, even when Cas rebuilt him.

It would’ve been helpful for both of them.

At any rate, it would’ve saved Dean the heartbreak of waking up to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.

***

It’s month six and seven all over again.

The side of the bed Cas left behind is so tidy and ordered that it clashes with the rumpled state of Dean’s side. Absurdly, it seems to mirror exactly what’s going on inside his head. 

He forces himself to keep it cool. Cas doesn’t have to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up _every day_, no matter how much he’s grown used to the luxury during the last month. 

So he takes the time to smoothen out the sheets, even fluffs out the pillow, glides into the comfort of his Dead Guy Robe and heads over to the kitchen. Slowly. Maybe with a slight hurry in his steps. But mostly he’s just walking calmly.

Cas is not in the kitchen when he arrives there.

Sam is, though.

Sam, who apparently just came back from a run because he’s stretching his leg against a chair like a goddamn ballerina. He grunts out a, “Morning,” when he spots Dean.

“Morning,” Dean returns absently. He trails his hand along the back of the opposite chair. “Hey, you seen Cas yet?” 

“Nah, just came back.” Sam drops his leg from the chair and stretches his arms over his head. Now that he’s standing upright again, he can look Dean in the eyes. 

Before he wonders why Dean hasn’t made fun of his little morning routine yet, Dean moves over to the kitchen counter to make coffee and whips out a, “I can see that. Take a shower, Jane Fonda.” 

Sam snorts.

Once the coffee maker purrs, Dean checks his phone again. It’s the first thing he did after noticing Cas missing, but still no dice. A quick scan of the room tells him Cas left no note either. But he’ll have to investigate more closely once Sam’s hit the showers.

With his back to Sam, he asks carefully, “He say anything to you?”

“Who?”

“The Marquess of fucking Hell, who do you think?”

Sam throws him a bitchface. “Cas?”

“Ten points to Slytherin.”

“A Harry Potter reference, really?” Sam snarks. “Wait, Slytherin? Why would I be a Slytherin?”

“It’s the whole speaking with snakes thing.”

“Not cool, Dean.”

“So did he?”

Sam inclines his head in consideration. “He texted me that some species of hummingbirds can flap their wings in a frequency of up to 80 beats per second,” he informs him, in the offhand way of someone who is used to exchanging random facts with an angel of the lord via text message. “But that was at like 3 in the morning. Other than that, no. Why, should I know something?”

Since none of these things – Dean waking up without Cas, a message from Cas, or any clue as to where the fuck he could be – is necessarily out of the norm for them – not at this point, but the 48-hour countdown before Dean _really_ freaks has already started – Dean just shrugs. “He was gone when I woke up,” he says casually. 

“Aw, and now you’re butthurt because he didn’t cuddle you into consciousness this time?”

And yeah, they’re getting separate rooms on hunts from now on. “My butt hurts for other reasons, Sam.”

“Gross, Dean.”

“And that was one time,” Dean says, already on his way out of the kitchen again.

“That I saw,” remarks Sam. “Hey, where are you going, your coffee –“

“Forgot my phone,” Dean lies.

Thankfully, Sam is polite enough to ignore the fact that Dean’s phone is still clutched tightly in his hand.

***

There are many, many rooms in the Bunker.

Dean knows because he checked each one of them for a trace of Cas. No luck, so far. 

No news in digital form either. Dean knows because he hasn’t lost sight of his phone for much longer than a toilet break. So far, he’s refrained from sending out a text, call or prayer of his own, though. He’s trying not to be as much of a mother hen, after how _that_ went down last time.

The next day, though, he’s taking action.

_what do u want for dinner_, his text says after a few minutes of careful contemplation. There. Thoughtful, but just casual enough to not seem pressuring, or pathetic. 

He’s not proficient in long-term relationships, but Lisa always gave him the third degree when he was close-mouthed about his whereabouts, so he’s positive he’s the in the right here. 

When he’s still got no answer after Sam and him have finished their lasagna – the one with fucking _spinach_ in it because Cas likes what its molecules add to the meal – that’s when he finally allows himself to get pissed off. Or worried, depending on how you look at it.

Sam apparently thinks it’s more of the latter. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he says apropos of nothing except Dean’s white-knuckling his phone. 

“He won’t be, once I get ahold of him.”

And Sam may roll his eyes, but Dean means it.

***

Wednesday, 0:32 _this is bullshit_

Wednesday, 0:33 _would it hurt you to answer your goddamn phone??_

Wednesday, 1:00 _whats ur fuckng deal???_

Wednesday, 1:15 _u know what im sick of bein the ony one in this stupif relationship to fuckin give a shit_

Wednesday, 1:17 _*stupid_

Wednesday, 1:29 _get ur feathery ass 2 the bznker or so help me ur deadbeat fuxking father_

Wednesday, 2:46 _you asshole_

***

Yeah, he’s not proud of that night.

***

Once the radio silence exceeds the fourteen-day-mark, Dean figures he’s allowed to be a little bit pathetic.

This time, he decides to haul out the big guns: he prays. 

***

_“Oh Castiel, who art I-don’t-know-where because he won’t tell me.”_

Drawing a deep breath, he soldiers on. 

_“Sorry about those texts the other day… I didn’t mean them. They’re – forget them!” _

He huffs a shaky laugh. _“You should clear out your voice mail too, while you’re at it. I’m just. Look, I just need you to come back.” _

He hates the way his voice breaks on the last vowel.

_“Please, man, I’m begging you here. If it’s me, if I did anything wrong, we can talk about it. Just come home and we’ll talk it out.”_

The bedside lamp next to him flickers, and for a second he wonders if that’s somehow a weird, cryptic signal from Cas. Then it dies out, just to mock him. 

Dean closes his eyes. The darkness isn’t any more comforting from behind closed eyelids. Figures.

_“I won’t even yell at you, I swear.”_

He lets his head fall into his hands. Hopes for his headache to go away.

_“Castiel.”_

***

If any other angels were listening, Dean prays they won’t think too lowly of him

***

Charlie comes by with no news, but ice cream en masse.

“It’s no cure, of course, but it always seems to help the protagonists in cheesy rom-coms.”

Dean glares at her until she grins.

“Hey, at least this way you can teach him what happens when he leaves you unattended for too long.” She reaches over to pat him on the stomach, almost falling out of her cross-legged position in the process. “Soft tummy.”

Dean glares harder, but resumes shovelling spoons full of ice cream into his mouth. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he grumbles half-heartedly through the cold sweetness.

“I am!” Charlie assures. “I can trash-talk him if you wanna.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. A week ago, he might have gladly accepted. But now? He just wants to lie on his bed and watch bad movies with his best friend. He shoots Charlie a look. “No news at all?”

“Zilch.” Apparently five whole minutes haven’t changed anything about her answer. “I couldn’t track down his location at all, but it’s not like my abilities span all magic dimensions. Yet.“ She pauses, offering Dean an apologetic smile. “Sorry, that probably didn’t help. You couldn’t get through to him at all? Maybe he just lost his phone.”

Dean raises his brows at her. 

“In a black hole or something. I’m trying to cheer you up here.”

“You’re not doing a very good job,” Dean comments dryly, but not unkindly. “I prayed to him, that’s like a direct line. Either he doesn’t wanna be found or –“ 

He tries to stop the thought before it can tighten his stomach into knots. He fails.

Charlie slides closer on the bed, tucks her arm into his’ and drops her head onto his shoulder. “He’ll come back. He always does, right?”

Resting his cheek against her hair, he says, “Right.” 

And if this time, he won’t, Dean’ll start looking.

And he won’t back down until it’s Cas himself who tells him to.

***

When he’d said that there’s nothing that could go wrong, he hadn’t factored in the possibility that Cas might leave him on his own volition. 

He’d expected a kidnapping. A trap of holy fire to blow out. An ancient curse they could break maybe, or another death to cheat. 

But if it’s Cas’ own wish to be away from Dean…

Now he doesn’t know what he should hope for.

***

It was his own fucking fault for mentioning the future.

Who knows if Cas wants to stay for next year’s Thanksgiving.

Let alone this.

***

On week four, his phone pings with an incoming text.

It’s not Charlie.

Sam’s sitting right next to him. 

It’s from Cas.

_I’ll be home by evening._

That’s all it says.

*** 

Cas arrives at exactly 8 pm. 

Dean knows because he’s been leaning against the war room table, staring up at the Bunker door ever since the sun was beginning to climb down the horizon. 

When the massive door opens, Dean straightens himself and crosses his arms over his chest in a clear demonstration of how he feels about Cas’ little stunt.

Full disclosure: Dean’s heart makes an excited leap once Cas’ dark, dishevelled mop of hair peeks out from behind the door. But Cas doesn’t need to know that. Not immediately at least.  
He’s gotta earn it.

“Hello, Dean,” he says in greeting, and Dean kinda wants to smash his nose against the railing.

His tone is sheepish, though, and Dean thinks, _good_. He lifts one hand to reveal a plastic bag, declaring, “I brought you pie,” and Dean thinks, _at least he knows how to crawl his way back_.

Cas climbs down the stairs, carefully, like Dean’s a deer that will bolt at any moment. Or maybe a dragon who’s threatening to burn him to ashes. 

“It’s your favourite,” Cas explains, and Dean grabs the bag and hurls it right back into Cas’ face.

“You’re an asshole,” he says, and storms off.

***

Cas doesn’t not-sleep in their room that night.

Dean knows, because he deliberately slammed the door into his face with not so much as a _good night_. 

He camped out against the wall outside their bedroom, though, hugging his knees against his chest, head dropped to his knees. 

Dean knows, because that’s how he finds him in the morning.

It’s a good start for his grovelling parade, Dean judges. At any rate, it’s evidence for his disappearing act not being part of a weird, passive-aggressive break-up strategy, so Dean figures he can throw him a bone. 

“Mornin’,” he grumbles, and pretends not to feel an immense satisfaction at the way Cas’ head whips up and how big and blue and pleading his eyes are. 

“Dean –,“ he raps out, but Dean’s already slipped past him on his way to the kitchen.

“Dean, let me explain –,” 

About ten steps away from his bedroom door, Dean whips back around. “No text!” He goes all up in Cas’ face. “No call, no single friggin’ _word_ about where you were!”

Cas has the decency not to drop his gaze to the floor. “I… I hadn’t expected it to take that long,” he said. “I was in Heaven.”

“In Hea-, oh, he was in fucking _Heaven_,” Dean spats out. His blood’s rushing through his ears and he’s struggling to think straight. “Cas, that’s _dangerous_. How many of them are on your side at this point?” 

How many of them aren’t?

“Hannah’s been establishing a solid leadership,” Cas explains meekly. “She’s assembled a following that’s both loyal and self-determined. Nevertheless, it was difficult… to make them hear me out.” 

Dean’s already opened his mouth to yell some more at Cas, when his words really register. “To… what?” 

“Hear me…” And now Cas does look down after all. 

From this angle, and once Dean really _looks_ at him, he notices the bags under Cas’ eyes, a little trace of human that shines through only when Cas is enjoying himself at what they call what ‘normal people’ do – like going to the movies or having a picnic – or when he’s really, really exhausted. Now that this detail has caught his attention, Dean’s eyes also catalogue the telling slump of Cas’ shoulders, and the nervous way in which his fingers are playing with his coat sleeve. Part of Dean wants to reach out and take this weight off of Cas, but he needs to know what this is about first.

Needs to know if he should stay angry.

“Cas,” he says, his voice softening. He’s not touching Cas, but his eyes do the work for him. They drag Cas’ gaze all the way back up from the ground, and hold them. 

Cas draws in a long breath. Exhales. 

“I’ve come to an agreement with Heaven,” he announces.

Dean deflates. “Cas…”

“No, Dean, listen. I’ve settled everything!” 

He’s actually heartbreakingly agitated now. His eyes hopeful, but still pleading. Pleading for Dean to find something positive in Cas disappearing out of the blue to make another stupid fucking deal.

“I asked for an audience. I asked to arrange matters regarding your own Heaven, and I also asked for a readmission.”

“A _readmission_?” 

“Dean, please listen!” 

Breathing in deeply, Dean wishes he had a chair to sink into right now. Instead, he makes do with leaning his weight against a wall. 

Cas waits for him to get settled. “You said nothing could go wrong now,” he starts then. “You said if you die, we’ll be together in your Heaven still. It sounded like your vision, your plan for the future.”

Heat rises to Dean’s cheeks. He knew that was too forward, too soon. “Cas, I –,”

“No, Dean,” Cas interrupts. “I wanted to secure that future for you.”

And that spins Dean’s thoughts around all over again.

“I needed to make sure you had a fixed place in Heaven. Hannah was very accommodating in that matter. For my part, I…,” Cas sighs. “That was decidedly more difficult. Hannah put in a good word for me, as did Inias and a few other angels, but it took a while to persuade everyone into welcoming me back into Heaven. In the end, we agreed on a banishment of ninety years. That is the period of time in which no contact with Heaven is allowed for me.” He looks at Dean significantly. “A lifetime, really.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth, like a fish. “A lifetime?” he repeats. “Ninety years. Cas, that’s… I’m forty, I’m not living another 90 years!”

“It was the best I could negotiate.”

“That’s like…,” Dean does the math in his head. “That’s like, fifty years without you, if we’re _really_ lucky.” Truth be told, he doesn’t think he can make it past forty-five, with the life he’s living.

The smile Cas sends him misses reassuring and lands more on sad. “Time moves faster, in Heaven.”

Dean huffs, returning a sad excuse of a smile, one of his own. All anger has vacated his body, but he doesn’t feel better for it. “And you?” he asks. 

Why his voice always breaks on him, he doesn’t know.

Cas shrugs, the gesture looking awkward on him. “I’ll wait it out.” Finally, he dares to step closer to Dean, lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb rubbing along his cheek bone. Dean leans into it like a touch-starved kitten. “We’ve overcome much more difficult times.”

In a sudden burst of anger, Dean smacks Cas’ hand away. “That’s not even –,” He tries to think over the rushing of his blood. “That’s not even the point right now!”

Cas looks baffled.

“I want us to make these decisions together for fuck’s sake!” Dean explains, voice strained in the effort to calm down. “I want to be there for you while you made your stupid fucking deals with Heaven! Instead you left me hanging like a war widow, not knowing when or _if_ you’d ever come back.”

“Dean, I –”

But Dean doesn’t let him finish. “No, you made me listen, now it’s your turn. Look, man.” 

Taking a deep breath, he remembers how emotionally exhausted Cas looks. How deeply rooted his own guardian angel complex is, just like it’s with Dean and his fear of abandonment. And fuck, he’s already thinking like one of Sammy’s self-help books. 

Anyway, he’s gotta get to the point if he wants to get through to Cas.

“Look. I don’t care if it’s Heaven or wherever the fuck else!” he blurts out. “It doesn’t have to be you, always moving heaven and hell to get to me. Relationships are about giving and taking, or so I’ve heard. If you wanna risk yourself for the sake of my – my goddamn happiness or whatever – you think I wouldn’t do the same for you in a fucking heartbeat? If you die, I’ll go straight to the Empty, Do Not Pass Go, and we’ll turn the whole dimension into our friggin’ double bed for the rest of eternity! If Billie rips you apart by the atoms, I’ll find every single fucking micro-piece of you and put you together, no matter how long it takes, or I die trying. And if I die, my soul is gonna hurl itself outta the gates of Heaven and it’s gonna find you and – do you need hands for this re-building thing? Because I don’t know if those soul-blobs of light still have their hands… Hey, are you crying?” 

Stubbornly stoic expression or not, the wetness in Cas’ eyes is an obvious tell. For Cas’ standards, that’s like crying torrents. At Dean’s observation, he presses the back of his hands against his eyes, as if to stop them from leaking.

The sight kinda melts Dean’s heart. 

He draws closer, pulls Cas against his chest. “Hey, easy there. It’s okay,” he soothes, rubbing circles into Cas’ back. 

“I’m not crying,” Cas rasps into Cas’ shoulder, uneven voice betraying his words. 

“Sure you’re not,” Dean allows, not ceasing his ministrations. “You’re just tired. Had a long few weeks.”

They both did. 

And fuck, Cas has a way of slipping under his defences. It’s far too easy for him to make Dean drop everything, even his grudge, and soften to a warm and fuzzy teddy bear around him. 

He’s still angry though.

They’ll have to talk about it. Later.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says. His words are still muffled by Dean’s shirt. “I didn’t want you to worry about any more of my… my ‘bullshit’.”

Cas’ hands are occupied with clutching tightly to Dean, but the air quotes are still audible in his voice. 

“I realize now that was selfish of me,” he admits. “Even if my intent was anything but. I didn’t know you were so…” For someone who’s not crying, Cas is sniffling an awful lot. “When I got your prayer, when I read your messages, I was too cowardly to send back more than one text. I wasn’t sure if you’d have me back.”

Hearing that, Dean presses Cas closer with all his strength. It must be no more than a butterfly’s caress to Cas’ celestial power, but it’s all Dean has to give. “_Of course_ I’ll have you,” he says resolutely. 

“And fuck, I told you to delete them. Even the voice mails?”

Cas nods against his shoulder. “They were very… revelatory.”

“Ugh!” Dean makes. 

He lets himself enjoy another minute of closeness, then brushes a hand through Cas’ unruly hair and draws back. Cas’ eyelids do that cute thing where they flutter up and down, not sure whether to land on Dean’s face or the ground, and Dean’s life is really unfair.

There’s one more thing to get off his chest: “What if they hadn’t let you come back to me, huh? Were you just willing to take that risk?” Dean swallows. He rakes his fingers through Cas’ hair again in an attempt to hide how much they’re shaking still. “If you think I’d just stand there and take the loss of you in return for eternal fucking Stepford peace, you don’t know me at all.”

Cas smiles, and it’s a fragile looking thing, like a hummingbird’s wing, but it’s keeping him up alright. “I know you, inside and out Dean,” he says.

“Exactly.” And then, because you can’t waste a good opening like that if your name is Dean Winchester, he wiggles his eyebrows at Cas suggestively. “Yeah, you _do_.” 

That earns him at least three seconds of the patented head-tilt, before Cas breaks out into one of his rare smiles that on anyone else would be just a twitch of the lips. On Cas, it’s a whole sunrise. 

“So you should know what you mean to me.” 

But maybe, it occurs to Dean, he doesn’t. Maybe this is one of those things that need to be said out loud. 

“I don’t need you to go off and clear the way for me all the time. Because I don’t give a fuck about any of this happiness crap if it’s not with you. Hell, I don’t even think you can _spell_ the word without you.”

Cas makes as if to argue that last point, but Dean holds up a hand. “Figure of speech, Cas. I’m saying, we can figure it out together. If Heaven was no option for you, I’d have gladly give up my spot up there! What matters is that we’re together.”

Now he’s said it. 

And somehow, the world keeps on turning.

With the small but significant difference that Cas seems a whole lot lighter, a whole lot happier. It’s a rare sight on Cas, but Dean vows to keep on making it happen. 

“Does that mean, I’m ‘out of the dog house’, now?” Cas asks, and there are the damn finger quotes in the flesh. 

Dean looks at him. “Fuck, who taught you that expression?”

“You did, Dean.”

“Figures,” Dean says, nodding once. He jabs a finger in Cas’ direction, sternly. “And no, it doesn’t.”

And with that, he grabs Cas’ hand and drags Cas along behind him towards the kitchen. 

He can be angry later still.

But he’ll be damned if he misses another breakfast without Cas there to help himself to Dean’s coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> because the coffee molecules taste much better, stolen from Dean's cup :)
> 
> This was not proof-read, but I had to get this out there. Might change the title, it kinda messes up my pattern haha.
> 
> Reminder to talk with your people instead of doing everything on your own, guys!<3


End file.
